


when i'm with you (it's like everything glows)

by timelxrd



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: All The Tropes, F/F, Hair Braiding, Top!Thirteen, cuddling!, little will have plot, one shots, some will be fluffy, some will be smutty, thasmin, thirteen stealing yaz's clothes, yes im projecting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2020-09-27 05:36:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20402533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelxrd/pseuds/timelxrd
Summary: a series of thasmin one shots[shoot me prompts at i-hate-empty-pockets on tumblr!]





	1. breathless (m)

Smooth, capable hands settle and burn into the angle of the Doctor’s hips while Yaz adjusts her stance and shuffles forward on her knees, only one, sole thought on her mind. 

“You’re sure about this, babe?” Yaz murmurs gently, a stark contrast to the fire burning behind her eyes when she takes in the sight before her — her girlfriend is on her hands and knees, fingers already fisted in the sheets beneath her, waiting to be filled, to be felt, to feel. 

“More than sure. Please, Yaz,” the alien pleads, wriggling her hips impatiently. Cool air meets the damp heat of her core, goosebumps following in its wake. She arches her back and glances over her shoulder, features blooming with desperation.

At the first press of the toy to her core, the Doctor slumps forward on her elbows, back arched in a perfect bow. Yaz is careful and slow, thumbs digging into her girlfriend’s hips to keep her from filling her to the hilt in one single, well-angled thrust. 

“Tell me if it gets too much, okay?” Yaz asserts — the Doctor’s welfare is far more important than anything else, plus she wants her to enjoy it, to experience the pleasure of being filled so much that she can’t quite think properly. 

“I will, I prom- _ oh,” _the Time Lord moans, the sound guttural and muffled into her pillow. 

Yaz momentarily reaches out, tangling a hand in her hair to draw her head back a touch. “I want to hear you, Doctor,”

Her command only encourages another breathy noise from the back of her girlfriend’s throat, so she presses closer, inching the toy further with each passing second. She stops when the Doctor’s thighs begin to tremble, giving her a minute to adjust to her girth before she starts moving her hips once more. 

The Doctor cries out once she’s buried to the hilt, the sensation new and unfamiliar but oh, _ so _fulfilling. 

“Is this okay? Do you want me to stop?” Yaz whispers, her own voice a little raspier than usual, words coated in need. But she’s patient, attentive, careful, her hips now resting and moulding against the Doctor’s backside. 

“It’s so —“ the Doctor starts, walls twitching and relaxing and beginning to accommodate the toy. She ducks her head to glance down at the sight of their level hips and the base of the pink toy disappearing into her entrance, letting out a breathy moan. “— Gods, Yaz. You feel so good. You can — you can start moving now. I can take it.” 

With the Doctor’s words of encouragement scribbled on the blackboard behind her pupils, Yaz begins to move, slow, deep thrusts which relax her muscles and leave her gasping for more. “Good girl.”

The praise leaves the Doctor breathless and complacent, angling her hips when her girlfriend curiously draws her hips back, the toy almost fully amiss, before snapping them back, a well-angled thrust leaving the Doctor speechless and seeing stars. 

Her approval is vocal, as ever, a wavering groan falling from swollen lips when Yaz sets up a punishing pace of deep, slow swivels and harsh, targeted thrusts. “Gods, Yaz_ , _please.” 

“Please _ what, _Doctor?” Yaz implores, voice breathy and strained at the glorious sight before her. She pulls her hips back until only the tip of the toy remains sheathed inside her girlfriend, then slowly, teasingly, grinds her hips forwards again. “Doctor, you need to tell me what you want.” 

“Harder, Yaz. Faster. _ Fuck me_, Yaz,” the Doctor drawls, well aware she’s dribbling into her pillow by now. She presses back against her girlfriend’s hips, utilising the toy for extra pressure against her clit. “Please, I’m so wound up, Yaz. Like a — _ oh — _ like a spring — _ ah, Gods — _Yaz, please.”

She doesn’t have to be told twice, the deep, guttural need in the Doctor’s voice sending a shiver down her spine and centring at her core. Her hands take purchase on her hips and she resists another minute or so of desperate whining and wriggling before setting up her pace again, deep and direct and seeking the spot inside her girlfriend which will send her tumbling into the abyss. 

Less than two minutes later, she finds it. A powerful thrust leads her to the source, the Doctor’s hips jumping and quivering against her form with a shout. “Yaz! Right there — do that — do that again, please!” 

So she does, and the Doctor is reduced to reciting words and phrases from a language Yaz can’t decipher, mumbling and drooling and writhing in the sheets. 

Using one hand to wipe at the sheen of sweat building between her brows and along her upper lip, Yaz uses the other to slip between them, palming confidently at her breast before heading southwards. She dances her fingertips around the toy before they settle at her clit, thumb rubbing deliciously at her sensitive bud. 

“You close, babe?” Yaz croons, her grip on her hip tightening, knuckles turning a little whiter. She likes leaving marks on her skin, subtle reminders of where her hands have been, the unblemished skin she takes claim. 

All she gets by way of response is a drunken nod and a whine, her thighs already beginning to tremble. 

Yaz ups her pace, fucking her mercilessly while her thumb presses firmly against her clit, spelling her name there. 

When she can tell the Doctor is teetering on the edge but holding herself back until she’s received permission, Yaz smirks, walking her fingertips along her spine if only to drag her fingernails back down. She leans over her, core strength keeping her steady while she pinches and presses at her clit, her hips working achingly quick against her. She takes the Doctor’s hand, curling their fingers together while she leans in to nip and suck at the spot below her ear. 

“Come for me, Doctor,” she whispers against her salty skin, directing her hips to the same point which had made her tremble and shout a minute earlier. 

Two thrusts and a slow grind of Yaz’s hips later, the Doctor cries out against her pillow, a slow, desperate whine following as she chases and captures her orgasm, muscles jumping in her thighs and her whole body heaving with waves upon waves of euphoria. She’s chanting quietly as she comes down, only Yaz’s name in her vocabulary. Her eyes are closed and her jaw hangs open, sated and weak. 

“You’re so good, Doctor,” Yaz purrs, slowly easing the toy from her entrance and slumping down beside her with a satisfied sigh.

The praise makes her girlfriend twitch and swallow, eyelids fluttering. She blinks them open and meets Yaz’s gaze with the most awestruck expression. “You’re brilliant, Yasmin Khan."


	2. my mind is playing tricks on my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> one word: soft

Cold sheets settle like a thin sheen of ice over Yaz’s form when she slips into bed, a weak headache nudging at her temples. She feels drained, and the empty space beside her offers no warmth, no safety, no intimacy — compared to every other night she usually spends aboard the ship. 

_ For good reason _, she would’ve added an hour or so ago after an off-hand comment sent her heart to her throat and words spilling in an angry stream from her lips. 

But now; now she craves her girlfriend’s company; craves it like she craves oxygen to breathe, wants to wrap around her and lose herself to her warm embrace. 

She shivers, goosebumps raising into cool air, and is sorely tempted to retrieve a jumper from her drawer until the door clicks and edges open. 

Yaz settles against the mattress, closing her eyes, imitating a sleeping version of herself. Her back is to the door but she can hear quiet footsteps and the cogs turning in her girlfriend’s brain, can feel eyes on her. 

“I know you’re awake, Yaz,” the Doctor whispers in the dark, breathing a faint sigh through her nose. “You don’t think I have your breathing patterns memorised by now, huh?” relieved of their earlier bite, her words envelop Yaz’s heart and patch up any fissures left in her wake. “Listen —” she starts, because Yaz hasn’t responded yet and she can _ hear _ the way she fidgets beside the bed with the anxiety it induces. “I want to apologise.”

Yaz shifts, rolling onto her side, sparing her a fatigued frown. Even in the low light, she can see the way the Doctor rocks on her toes and swallows heavily. “It really hurt me — what you said.”

The Doctor visibly deflates, drawing the sleeves of her undershirt down and hanging her head in dejection. “I know, now. And I’m sorry — I’m really, _ really _ sorry. I should’ve thought — my mouth and my brain don’t always work very well together.” She wrings her hands, blue-striped socks curling into the carpeted floor. “I’m working on it, Yaz, I promise,” she almost pleas, and Yaz softens. “I’m trying.” 

Reaching out, Yaz peels back the corner of the covers and pats the empty space beside her. “C’mere.”

The Doctor relaxes instantly, shoulders easing, the tension in her jaw dissipating. She wriggles out of her navy trousers and slips between the sheets in her t-shirt and underwear, but she doesn’t offer her affections, doesn’t curl around her just yet — she’s nervous. She’s stuck. 

“I’m not going to bite, Doctor,” Yaz teases gently, reaching out for her girlfriend’s hand to loop around her waist and settle against her hip and steal the warmth from her burning fingertips. All at once, her goosebumps ease and the chill to her bones seeps like a slow stream from her limbs. 

  
  


The tentative beginnings of a smile edge their way along the Doctor’s lips. “Thank the _ Gods _,” she sighs reverently against her shoulder when she tucks closer, hooking a soft, pale thigh over Yaz’s hip and all but clinging to her. “I like holding you.”

If it was anyone else, Yaz would feel suffocated, but with the Doctor, she’s forever searching for ways to press impossibly closer, to cement their bodies and mould into one. When she slips a hand between them, weaving her fingers between the ones settled over her stomach, she exhales in time with the squeeze her girlfriend offers. “You don’t say.” 

The blonde scoffs, the motion filtering in a light breeze against her neck. “Cuddles with Yaz?” she quips. 

Beneath her, Yaz rolls her eyes, already predicting her next words. “Amazin’.”

  
  
“Oi,” the Doctor huffs, leaving Yaz to bite back laughter. “That’s _ my _ line.”


	3. something just like this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the prompt @jolivira!!!! 
> 
> cuddling, sweet kisses and hair braiding !
> 
> enjoy!

Bare forms interweave and mould together in the wake of the cool morning air, rendering the less-adapting human craving closer contact. With a sleepy sigh, Yaz curls closer, winding one of her girlfriend’s warm arms around her as she wedges herself entirely against the Doctor’s side. What little space there had been between them is vanquished in seconds. 

“Yaz?” the Doctor hums a few minutes later when Yaz’s hair tickles her nose and she scrunches it in turn. Her voice is raspy with sleep and Yaz warms further. “You’re all duck-bumpy. Wait — no, geese? _ Goosebumps _! You’re all goosebumpy, Yaz. You okay?”

“Just a little cold, but I’m alright now,” Yaz mumbles into her shoulder, lips moving against her strong collarbone. "You're nice 'n warm."

The Doctor shifts closer anyway, bringing a hand up to thread through the base of Yaz’s bun, which has loosened and dishevelled in her sleep. _ And after certain activities they’d fallen into the night prior, _the thought of which doubles the heat emanating from her form. Distracting herself, the Doctor presses her nose against the top of Yaz’s head, breathing her in, savouring her scent. If she spends enough time this close to her, perhaps she’ll start to smell as sweet as her too. She can only dream. “You smell really sweet, Yaz. Have I mentioned that before?” 

“A couple times, yeah. Especially last night, when you were in between my l—” Yaz starts smugly, but she’s interrupted by the Doctor pressing her index over her lips with reddened cheeks. 

“_ Yaz,” _ she giggles, gaze flitting between Yaz’s deep brown eyes and the thin sheets curled around her form. “People might hear.” Then, with a tight-lipped smirk and a heady look, “They might get jealous.”

“I hope they do,” Yaz flirts openly, leaning on her elbow to bump their noses together before pressing a kiss to her girlfriend’s lips. When the muscles of her thighs and wrist protest, though, she quells her desire to gentle, affectionate kisses which leave the time lord beneath her sighing and purring like a well-petted kitten. She settles against her again when fatigue creeps back through her muscles and the heat from the woman nestled at her side leaves her feeling weightless and blissful. 

“Close your eyes, Yaz,” the Doctor murmurs into dark curls, easing her hair from its bun if only to caress and thread her fingers through it. She massages the space just below her ear where shorter ringlets toy lightly between her fingers, waiting another hour or so in the quiet of their grand room in Queen Tanerfia’s Palace while Yaz catches up on her sleep. 

By the time she comes to again, Yaz relishes in the Doctor’s continued caresses and affections. She still has her fingers threaded through her full locks, but her brows are furrowed and her head is tilted, lips pursed. Yaz lifts a hand to cup her girlfriend’s cheek. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, peachy, yeah,” the Doctor leans into her palm with a hum, lashes fluttering, smile lifting. “I just —” she continues, wetting her lips in a nervous tick. 

Yaz’s heart starts to race. Did she do something wrong?

“Could you teach me to plait your hair?” she asks, puppy-eyed and shy. “You have really beautiful hair, and I always want to touch it, and you look really pretty in plaits, so I —” 

“‘Course I can, silly,” Yaz replies amidst muted laughter, the ache in her chest easing. She presses a kiss to the Doctor’s beaming lips before sitting up, cross-legged, the sheets pooling in her lap. She’d feel more self-conscious about her naked flesh if the Doctor didn’t regard her like a fallen angel each time she gets to see her like this. “Sit behind me and I’ll show you what to do.” 

“Brilliant,” the Doctor leaps free of the sheets with the enthusiasm of a toddler on Christmas morning, settling behind her girlfriend and tucking her legs either side of her hips. While Yaz guides her through each interweaving lock of hair, her expression shifts to one of complete focus, tongue captured between her teeth. 

She’s a quick learner, something Yaz had already known, and so when, five minutes later, the Doctor ushers Yaz into the grandeur of their ensuite to check over the hairstyle, she should’ve known that a three-stranded braid was too easy for her. Dark, natural curls have been neatly but lazily tamed with six interweaving strands into a delicate plait, leaving a lock either side to fall loose in an elegant updo. 

“What do you think? Did I do okay?” the Doctor hums, unsure, tucking shyly behind her and looping her arms around the gentle curves of her girlfriend’s bare hips. “Got a bit carried away again, didn’t I? I can try it again if you don’t like it.”

“Doctor,” Yaz huffs a laugh, catching her eye in the brilliantly clean, gold-bordered mirror. “It’s beautiful. I love it. I thought you said you didn’t know how to do this?”

“I didn’t,” she responds, dropping a kiss to her shoulder as she takes her in. Seeing Yaz like this, bare to the touch, all hers, smiling at her as though she’d put the stars in the sky— she could cry. “I just have a brilliant teacher.”


	4. makeup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the prompt @uwuttaker!!! 
> 
> in which the doctor discovers the world of makeup at the hands of her girlfriend

The pressure of the Doctor’s chin on her shoulder is both a comforting weight and a distraction while Yaz sorts through her weathered makeup bag. 

Gangly, pyjama-clad legs move to bracket her hips as the alien perches down on the plush carpet behind her, peering at the instruments strewn on display, then into the mirror her girlfriend has propped up before them. She pulls a face at her reflection at the same time as she sweeps an arm lazily around Yaz’s stomach. “Whatcha doing?”

“Just my makeup, babe,” Yaz hums, dropping a kiss to her girlfriend’s temple and scooping up a half-full tube of liquid. 

“Makeup! Of course,” the Doctor hums, toying with a fraying piece of material at the seam of Yaz’s top while her free hand fishes up a dark shade of lipstick and curiously uncaps it, giving it a sniff. “My last self was partial to it when Bill wanted someone to practice on. He actually quite liked it, in the end. Haven’t done much experimenting with it this time around.” 

Yaz smiles despite herself — ever since their last stint with the cybermen and Gallifrey, the Doctor has been giving up more and more tidbits of information about her past. Bill was a difficult topic to tackle so soon after an altercation with her captors, but in the dark of night and with a hand to hold, the Doctor had been surprisingly candid. 

“I think —” The Doctor’s cheeks are warm against the thin fabric of her sleep shirt when her head tilts. She casts the lipstick back to the pile with a scrunch of her nose. “I think you look beautiful with or without it, Yaz,” she notes shyly, nose cool when it presses along the side of her neck and settles there. “Just so you know.”

While her girlfriend makes herself comfortable, Yaz drops her gaze and smiles through a bashful blush. She reaches out to give her knee a squeeze. “Thanks, Doctor. Really.” She turns, regarding sleep-softened eyes and red cheeks. “But you’re biased.”

The Doctor’s scoff of laughter melts against the inside of her neck and for a moment, Yaz envelops herself in the sensation, shifting to capture her lips and only finding empty air. In the time it takes for her to blink, her girlfriend has untangled from her back and shuffled up beside her to inspect curiously at her collection. 

“What’s this?” the Doctor quips, drawing aloft a small, enclosed pot. “Let me guess — the line thing? Which goes on your eyes?” 

“That’s nail varnish, sweetheart,” Yaz supplies in amusement, reaching out to retrieve the purple shade when her ditsy girlfriend moves to open it upside down. “You’re thinking of eyeliner.” 

She moves on, giddy and excitable as she opens up a fresh palette. She can’t hold back a gasp as she takes in the flurry of colour, pupils blown. “And this?” 

Training her adoration back, Yaz matches the Doctor’s incorrigible grin and then some. “That’s eyeshadow, Doctor.”

“What about this?”

“Mascara.”

“Really? It looks more like one of our toy—” 

“Doctor!”

The Doctor’s head turns, lips lifting in confusion before falling into a smile which is far too smug for Yaz’s ego. “Sorry,” she lies, then sits back, legs crossed as her hands fall to her knees. “Can you do me?”

“I—” 

“No! Wait, no. I mean — the makeup. Can you do me?” the Doctor corrects, humour set like a stone in laughing eyes. “Yasmin Khan, can you do my make up?” 

Yaz shakes her head through her struggle and her stammers, breathing a laugh. “Of course I can. But only if you’re sure you can stay still for long enough?” 

The Doctor’s pout is  _ audible _ . “I can stay still! I went to a six-month statue-training course once. They painted us all gold and gave us really cool hats,” she reels with a grin which quickly dissipates into thoughtful reminiscence. “I miss that hat.”

“I’m sure you’ll find it somewhere,” Yaz implores gently, a hand at the Doctor’s waist encouraging her to face her properly. “Now, let’s see if that training did you any good.”

It doesn’t, in fact, and within minutes, the Doctor breathes a little huff of a whine while Yaz attempts the first layer of eyeshadow to flitting, twitching eyelids. 

“Okay, so I might have only lasted a week at training,” the blonde breathes, wiping away a tear when, during the application of mascara, she kept her eyes open long enough to make them water. All to prove a point, it seems. 

Catching the last droplet to tumble down a prominent cheekbone, Yaz sets the mascara aside and wipes under her eyes with a hum of concern. “Ready for the last part?”

“Depends,” the Doctor pouts in faux-irritation, folding her arms until Yaz offers up a kiss to her cheek. She softens before Yaz’s eyes in under a second. “— Is it going to take my eye out again?”

“Babe, I didn’t even get that close — you’re so dramatic,” Yaz laughs, drawing free a choice of three lipstick tones and giving her an excuse to study the Doctor’s mouth while she decides on the right shade. “And this one’s for your lips, anyway. No more agonising pain, I promise.” 

“Lipstick? Brilliant,” the Doctor enthuses, fidgetting in place when Yaz finally settles on a light peach-pink colour. “I love lipstick.” 

It blends with the faint tan eyeshadow she’d chosen in a warm, delicate look when Yaz cradles her chin and fills in the slope of her lips in a slow, patient swipe. 

“Tastes plastic-y,” the Doctor murmurs when, on reflex, she drags her tongue over her drying lips. 

With a roll of her eyes, Yaz settles back on her heels and nods towards the floor-length mirror. “It’s not there for a snack, Doctor. Go on, take a look.” 

“Then what’s the point of wearing — oh,” the Doctor caters off into a soft gasp, taking a slow step forward towards the mirror to better admire Yaz’s handiwork. “Wow. That’s—” 

“S’it okay?” Yaz queries gently when the sentence goes unfinished, moving to stand so she can better catch her reaction. “I can take it off, if you don’t like —”

“Yaz,” she acquests, reaching behind herself for the hand she knows Yaz will offer. She entwines their fingers in no time, drawing her closer. “Yaz, I love it. Thank you,” she asserts in earnest, turning to spare her a giddy, albeit slightly stunned look. “Do you — do  _ you  _ like it?”

“Me? Doctor, of  _ course _ I do,” she returns, slinking an arm around the older woman’s waist when she reels her in. “I like anything you try out, and I think you’re stupidly pretty either way.” 

The Doctor takes her opportunity to press painted lips to the corner of Yaz’s lips, divulging in the faintest of squeals when she leaves her mark behind on Yaz’s skin. 

“I can teach you all this sometime if you like?” Yaz offers when the Doctor has pulled back, taking in their entangled forms in the mirror and picking up on her girlfriend’s growing grin. 

  
“Oh, Yaz, you’re  _ brilliant,”  _ the Doctor sighs, hearts thumping steadily in her chest as she takes herself in anew. “I think I’d love that.” 


	5. on the edge (E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i really ought to start going to confession (based off a prompt from tumblr - u know who u are u thirsty lil-)

They’ve just dropped off the last of a group of missing adventurers and the TARDIS is shifting into night mode by the time Yaz draws herself towards the console. With a pat to her girlfriend’s hip, she forces the blonde to turn around and meet her gaze. 

“Sorry ‘bout this evening, Yaz. I _ promise _ it was meant to be a lovely date,” the Doctor murmurs in earnest, lifting a hand to her cheek and offering up a guilty grimace. The other hand slips into the pocket of her black suit trousers, cuffed at the ankles and otherwise far too flattering to avoid Yaz’s approving gaze throughout the evening. “Had no idea it would turn into a rescue mission instead.”

“It’s alright, it’s not your fault,” Yaz implores in dismissal, leaning into her touch with a flutter of long, painted lashes. “I should know by now that you’re basically a magnet for trouble.”

“You could say that, yeah. Trouble is my middle name,” the Doctor chuckles, the sound low in her throat, and slips her hand free to curl around the swell of Yaz’s hip, fingers toying at the sequined fabric of her cocktail dress. When she glances up from the forest green material, there’s a dark rim encircling curious eyes. “Still, I’d like to make it up to you, if I can?”

Yaz watches those same eyes dip lower to tumble over full lips and settle there amongst the artificial strokes of her red lipstick. The pulse in her neck flits up and up in pace until it grants itself the Doctor’s attention, too. “Oh, yeah? How so?”

“Reckon I’ve still got a few things up my belt,” the Doctor divulges with a coy smirk, ducking her head to brush her cool nose along the underside of Yaz’s jaw towards the echoing _ thudthudthud _ just beneath her dark skin. A hand slips around the back of her neck, fingers slipping between threads of blonde hair. 

When she closes her mouth around Yaz’s pulse and sucks at the skin there, her counterpart gives a sure tug of short hair and a low rumble echoes out from the back of the Doctor’s throat. “So it’s going to be _ that _ kinda night, huh?” the alien whispers in a low growl against her skin, making a slow trail down from the reddish mark to the slope of her chest. 

The dress has a v-shape neckline and the Doctor is active in her approval, lips finding the upper curve of her breast while she curls an arm low over her hips. She lifts her other hand to Yaz’s shoulder, nudging the flimsy strap of her dress aside to expose more olive skin to her attentions. 

When Yaz seems too caught up to make a response, the Doctor turns her slightly, guiding toned thighs back against the curve of her console. “I love this dress.”

A kiss to her shoulder, then her collarbone, before she confidently ventures down the valley of her chest to where the material restricts her. “Would look even better on the floor.”

Yaz gasps, high-pitched and shaky, when the Doctor closes the distance between their hips to press snugly against her, the pressure just right. She clasps at her belt loops as the Doctor mouths at her breast through the thin material, finding enough purchase to roll squirming hips forward. 

“Not getting many words out of you here, Khan,” the Doctor notes not without a smirk, lifting her gaze to seek her out; to earn consent before she continues. When she rolls her hips, she falters for a second, breathing out a staggered moan. “_ Yaz _, tell me this is what you want.”

“Y’think it isn’t obvious?” Yaz mumbles breathily, lifting the Doctor’s head back up with the hand buried in her hair. She earns a purr for that, and the alien’s hips shift. “I want this. Doctor, I want you.”

The Doctor catches her bottom lip between her teeth, chest heaving faintly beneath the confines of her crisp white shirt and dotted bow tie. She racks her gaze over her; lips parted, eyes dark, pulse point an angry red. “Good.”

With a tender kiss to the mark gracing her neck, the Doctor straightens up, hands at Yaz’s hips. “I’ve just got one more thing to deal with. Go to my room, I’ll be there in five.”

When Yaz lets out a grumble of protest, the Doctor curls her palm around her chin and stills her with a heated glare. “Do you want this or not, Yasmin?”

Fidgety with the sudden lick of flames at her gut, Yaz swallows around a whimper. “Your room. You’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Good girl,” the Doctor breathes through a laugh which makes Yaz shiver, peeling herself away with only a hint of reluctance. “Go on.” 

Yaz makes it to the steps on jelly legs before peering back over her shoulder. “How — uh — how do you want me?”

“Yasmin Khan, you speak my language.” The Doctor lets out a wondrous sigh as though picturing her in varying states of undress. Goosebumps rise along Yaz’s arms and thighs. “Underwear only.”

Yaz nods, casting one last openly-admiring glance towards her girlfriend before turning back to the corridor. She can feel eyes on her as she walks, so when she peels the zipper of her dress down and lets the garment pool at her ankles half-way along, she’s beyond pleased with the stifled gasp which echoes from the console room behind her. 

Five minutes and forty-three seconds later, she thinks the Doctor might’ve gotten distracted by a number of components in the console room and left her high and — well, not exactly _ dry _— but if that’s how the saying goes, so be it. 

So, when the door creaks open and the blonde slips through — bow tie, blazer and braces shed — she breathes a sigh of relief under her breath. 

“Miss me?” the Doctor croons with a smug little grin Yaz can’t _ not _ find adorable despite the circumstances. 

“Loads,” Yaz quips back, propping herself up on her elbows and popping her brows in expectation when the Doctor rounds to the bed and takes her in. 

Her dress didn’t require a bra, and in the cool temperature of the room and under the Doctor’s intense gaze, her bare chest is freckled with goosebumps. The emerald lace of her knickers hides her arousal, but her girlfriend’s heightened senses mean it’s almost impossible to completely disguise the scent. 

The Doctor smirks, wets her lips, and climbs onto the end of her bed. A hand falls to her stomach, fingers spanning toned, unblemished flesh, just as she straddles her thighs. “Gods, you really are the most beautiful being I’ve ever encountered, Yasmin.”

Cheeks flaring with a hint of bashfulness she still can’t seem to shake despite their countless times together, Yaz clutches at the Doctor’s half-unbuttoned shirt and drags her into a kiss. 

She’s granted only a millisecond of control before her girlfriend sweeps her tongue into her mouth and drops a hand to palm enthusiastically at her breast, the other arm propping herself up beside her head. 

While Yaz works at the buttons separating the Doctor’s cooler skin from her own, the blonde begins working her thumb over a dusky nipple, gasps passing between their mouths every time short nails catch at the raised skin. 

When the Doctor has thoroughly satisfied Yaz’s bottom lip, she pulls back with a drunken smirk to take her unattended breast into her mouth. Under Yaz’s needy gaze, she bares her teeth, and after a quick, desperate nod, she bears down against giving, supple flesh. 

Yaz’s hips jolt with the dizzying mixture of pain and pleasure, one hand shooting to the Doctor’s messy locks to tug and guide and earn a muffled groan. 

With the next kick of her hips comes an unfamiliar but unalarming pressure, hot and firm against where she aches most. 

“_ Fuck _ — Doctor, are you wearing —” Yaz gasps between bites and noisy sucks at her chest, rolling up into that delicious friction. “ — mnng, are you — _ ah!” _

She hisses as the Doctor works her tongue over her oversensitive bud while twisting the other between thumb and forefinger in answer, moulding their hips together and finding the best angle to squirm them forward. 

Only once she’s rendered her worked up and dizzy and writhing enough does the Doctor draw her mouth away to admire her work, eyes dark like two eclipses at once. “I want you.”

“Then —” Yaz pants, lifting her hips in a needy grind. “ — have me.”

“Hm,” the Doctor hums under her breath, as if in contemplation. She shuffles back, walking long fingertips down her sternum to her stomach, then to her hip where there’s a ticklish spot which makes Yaz squirm. “Depends — are you ready for me, Yaz?”

“_ Yes _,” Yaz hisses when she continues to dance her fingertips over the sensitive spot, another flood of heat hurtling towards the space between her legs. “Always”

The Doctor offers an experimental brush of her fingers against her underwear, finding heat and wetness in an instant. 

Yaz thinks she hears her curse under her breath, and it’s decidedly not English, but she’s too distracted by her talented fingers to care too much. Head tipping back with a gasp, she keens when two fingers press firmly against her bundle of nerves and crook against the material. “Please.”

“_ Do you think you could take me, Yasmin? _” the Doctor croons with unmoving lips, and only then does Yaz register that her free hand is pressed to her temple. The Doctor’s eyes are dark and dangerous as she continues her attentions to her clit, gaze unmoving from her eyes. 

“Yes,” Yaz breathes aloud, jaw hanging open in awe as images of their time together flash at the forefront of her mind. A newer image rises to the surface, blurry and half-formed, and Yaz gasps when she digs deeper in search of it. It must be one of her girlfriend’s fantasies, and in the back of her mind, she makes a note to see it through. “Please, Doctor.”

Her fingers delve further, pressing and curling and rubbing circles into the thin fabric just over her core. Yaz’s hips jump and the Doctor’s smirk broadens as though she’s some kind of experiment. “Take these off.” 

With a relieved groan, Yaz hikes her hips up and scrabbles to tear her underwear away, eyes on her girlfriend when she discards them and drags her hand back up her stomach, to her chest, then drops it down beside her. 

Seeing ahead, though, the Doctor reaches for Yaz’s hand, drawing it back to her abdomen, then down into sopping heat. “This all for me?” she poses, moving Yaz’s fingers through soaked folds to find her entrance. 

“Always,” Yaz supplies in earnest, twitching up into her hand, brows creasing in the middle with pleasure. She’s embarrassed to find herself already so close to the edge. “You have no idea.”

“Oh?” the Doctor purrs, ducking her head to press a surprisingly tender kiss to her hip, then the space below her belly button, before drawing her own hand away. “Then touch yourself and think of me, Yaz.”

With a whimper, Yaz sets about her task, avoiding her clit for fear of overstimulation and instead heading straight for the source. She’s audibly slick when she sinks two fingers into her core with ease, knuckle deep before the Doctor can groan her approval. 

“That’s so good; you’re so good, Yaz.” The Doctor shuffles back on her heels, peeling the rest of her shirt buttons apart and tossing it aside, then moving to unbuckle her belt. “Always so good for me.”

The praise sends another wave of toe-curling heat to her core and she whines as another flood of wetness coats her fingers. When she looks up, the Doctor is watching her working hand with such hunger it makes her clench involuntarily and pulse around the intrusion. 

“Fuck,” the alien whimpers under her breath, idly unbuckling her belt and slipping it free. She drops it to the floor and kneels up, faltering as though shy about a request. 

Yaz’s fingers come away slick and she clears her throat to draw the Doctor’s distracted gaze up seconds before she slips them past her mouth. It’s not an unpleasant taste, and going by the Doctor’s reaction, she’s definitely appeased her desires. 

“_ Christ _ , _ Yaz _,” the Doctor moans, gripping at her thigh as she watches on. 

Yaz sucks them clean one by one while her girlfriend fidgets and squirms and presses her thighs together, unable to look away. “All of this is from you, Doctor.” 

“Gods, I need you.” The Doctor shuffles up, parting Yaz’s thighs and moving to unzip her fly. When she draws her cleaned hand away, she pauses, smirk reappearing. “Sit up, Yaz. I want to try something.”

Playing coy even though she’s already seen her desires behind her eyes, Yaz shuffles up in spite of the ache between her legs. She watches as the Doctor slips from the bed to stand at the end, hands at her waistband. “What is it?” 

“You want to be good for me, Yasmin?” the Doctor questions rhetorically, reaching out to cup Yaz’s cheek before she slips her thumb past her lips. “I want your mouth.”

Yaz moans low in her throat when the Doctor uses her free hand to draw her black suit trousers down enough to let free a flesh-coloured toy clipped to a harness at her hips.

“Go on, don’t be shy. Be a good girl,” the Doctor encourages when Yaz blinks coyly up at her, stepping forward and sweeping a hand into dark hair. She double-checks with a thumb to her temple over her willingness, and when Yaz only sends graphic, entwined bodies back through her mental feed, she growls lowly. “_ Yaz.” _

Yaz smirks as she leans in, wrapping a hand around her and jerking it half a dozen times before closing her mouth around the tip. The toy touches her clit with every movement, Yaz finds upon closer inspection, motivating her to sink into the motion as much as she can before drawing back and repeating the action. 

The Doctor’s hand is tight in her hair and she moans with every nudge of friction against her, watching the toy disappear past her girlfriend’s lips with pitch-black eyes. “That’s it, Yaz.”

Yaz’s whine resonates along her, making the Doctor’s thighs tremble. Her hips twitch forward despite her best efforts to keep still. “_ Shit _— sorry. Wasn’t meant to—” 

But when Yaz lifts her hands to her hips and actively encourages her forward, she gasps in surprise, a palm at the back of her neck when she starts up a series of lazy thrusts. 

“Fuck — Yaz, you’re so good, you’re _ too _ good,” the Doctor whimpers in time, thighs clenching, toes curling in blue threads. She’s hazy with pleasure, legs like jelly. 

When she can start to see the edge on the horizon, she suddenly draws back, letting a breathless, wrecked Yaz glance up at her through half-lidded eyes and parted lips. There’s an obscene damp spot in the blue sheets between her legs which has the Doctor biting back a moan. 

“Lie back,” she commands, climbing onto the four-poster bed when Yaz obediently slumps into the sheets. 

She parts her legs for her as the Doctor trawls forward, suit trousers still half-hugging her hips. It’s almost more attractive that way, Yaz finds when she reaches between them for her belt loops and positions her just so. 

“Say please,” the Doctor murmurs shakily against her ear, catching the lobe between her teeth as she holds herself up over her. Yaz can tell her restraint is only just holding on. 

The toy bumps against her clit and Yaz’s head falls back with a keening moan. “Please. I need you inside me, Doctor.”

She doesn’t have to wait much longer, the toy like a knife through butter when the Doctor finally sinks between her legs in one steady thrust. Her short nails close in on her shoulders and she almost weeps with relief, toned thighs hitching high over her hips and securing her in place. 

“You like that?” the Doctor purrs, drawing her hips back slowly before rolling them forward in a smooth motion. Briefly, Yaz thinks back to the snippets of information she’s granted her, and idly wonders if the Doctor misses certain… anatomy this time around. 

Before she can finish that thought, the Doctor snaps her hips forward and Yaz’s brain turns to putty, the sensation rolling like waves through her system. The pit of her stomach feels like a shaken coke can. 

“You didn’t answer me,” the Doctor growls, granting her another few punishing thrusts, each one deeper than the last until Yaz has to grip at her hip for leverage. 

“I do,” Yaz whimpers, head tipping back when the Doctor’s lips find her throat and take purchase. “I’m so full of you, Doctor.”

The Doctor’s responding groan melts against her pulse and the blonde lifts her head to catch her lips instead. Her thrusts pick up, gradually, the somehow brand new and ancient bed creaking with each deepening roll of her hips. 

One such thrust leaves Yaz crying out into her mouth and clutching at her hips to angle her into position again, nails digging into the expanse of her toned backside. “_ Ohfuckrightthere _.”

Picking up the pace, the Doctor aims and hits the same sensitive spot in the far reaches of her core with expert ease, a bead of sweat clinging to her temple and gathering in the slope above her top lip. She looks glorious like this, and Yaz takes a mental picture before stars begin bursting in the corners of her vision. 

“You’re so tight,” the Doctor groans against her shoulder, dropping her clammy forehead to the firm muscle there and panting into the dip of her collarbone. “You take me so well, Yaz.”

A jumble of curses fall past Yaz’s lips in response, grip tightening around her girlfriend. “Doctor, I’m —” 

“Hold it,” the Doctor growls, immediately lifting up on her elbows and drawing her twitching hips back. She grants her a few extra thrusts when Yaz grips at her for dear life, but pulls back the second her moans heighten in pitch. 

“Wh- _ no _, Doctor, what are you — you can’t—” Yaz whines and whimpers when she clenches around nothing, squirming in place like a wind-up toy with a broken wheel. 

The Doctor grasps at her hips, angling them how she likes. “Turn over.”

Obligingly, and not without a whimper, Yaz rolls onto her front, lifting her backside in readiness. 

The clap of the Doctor’s hand against a cheek is unexpected but not unwelcome, and Yaz’s moan melts into her pillow. The Doctor lines up and hitches her hips forwards, the toy coming home not a second too late. 

Her mouth comes to rest at her shoulder, teeth grazing skin, and a hand sneaks between them to paw lazily at Yaz’s chest, a thumb circling a hardened, marked nipple. 

She works her up expertly, as always, hips driving toward her backside with each thrust until they turn clumsy with pleasure and a sudden lack of coordination and she pants breathlessly against her skin. 

“Yaz, I’m close,” she murmurs against her, voice hoarse with exertion. She can tell Yaz has been holding back since she’d flipped their positions. When she drags her hand down to palm at her clit, her strained whimper is enough proof. “Gods, you’re right there, aren’t you, Yaz?”

“_ Doctor _,” Yaz groans in desperation, arching out of her touch when the swollen bud serves too sensitive not to send her hurtling over the edge. “Doctorpleaseletmecome.”

“It would only take one touch, wouldn’t it?” the Doctor drawls, chasing her own orgasm with frantic, rutting thrusts which leave her companion drooling into the sheets. Her hand spans her abdomen, feeling her stomach muscles clench and tighten beneath her fingers. “Fuck, Yaz, you’re rock hard. I can feel you.”

Slumping against her slightly, Yaz groans when she feels full breasts mould against her back, each deep, desperate thrust sending her further and further into her worldless ascent. “Please,” she whispers, tears springing to her eyes when the Doctor’s hand finds her clit again. “_ Please _.”

Hormones flooding her veins, the Doctor’s free hand grips at Yaz’s hip firmly enough to leave half-crescents in perfect skin. She circles her clit once, twice, three torturous times before applying pressure and doubling her efforts. “You — _ Yaz _ — you can let go.”

If they weren’t in the depths of the TARDIS, Yaz’s following cry would’ve almost definitely shattered through the perception filter and echoed through open space. The Doctor coaxes her through it with firm, exhausted thrusts, her own release following seconds later in an animalistic grunt against her shoulder followed by a staggered groan. 

She sags against her with the occasional twitch of her hips, pale skin moulded to brown until Yaz stifles a whine and turns her head to seek her out. 

Yaz mourns the loss immediately, but if it means the Doctor can wrap her up in her arms and they can settle against each other, spent and sated, she really doesn’t mind it after all. 

Catching her breath between the Doctor’s collarbone and shoulder, Yaz draws nonsensical patterns against her girlfriend’s hip. 

“Yaz,” the Doctor starts, fingers combing slowly through dark locks. “Yaz, was that —” 

“Some of the best sex I’ve ever had?” Yaz croaks, dancing her fingertips over her navel and giggling when she squirms. “Yeah, think so.”

“Oh,” the Doctor announces with a huff of laughter, the nails scratching at the base of Yaz’s neck coaxing a purr. “Right. Brilliant.”

“Never be scared to be like that with me, Doctor,” Yaz implores with a kiss to her jaw, then another to the corner of her lips. She shivers with the euphoria lingering in her veins, which — obviously — the Doctor takes as a reaction to the temperature. The sheets are dragged over her form in seconds. “I can take it. I’m stronger than you think.”

“Yasmin Khan,” the blonde replies wistfully, tangling their legs together and seeking out her lips. “You’re stronger than anyone I know.” 

Yaz hums into the kiss, letting her girlfriend soothe her bottom lip where she’d bitten down earlier. She’s all sweetness and soft affections where she was rough and possessive before, and it’s the perfect concoction. 

“And, Doctor, you’re the best person I’ve ever met."  
  
  



	6. you make me feel at home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> featuring stolen clothes + a sleepy timelord who's soft for her gf x

“Doctor?” Yaz calls, taking two steps at a time down from the corridor and sweeping into the console room. 

Her namesake is leaning against the controls, hips jutting out in open invitation to curl her arms around and draw close. Usually, she would indulge herself in the action, but thanks to a lazy morning and her girlfriend’s dodgy timing skills, she’s already running late for her mother’s birthday celebrations as it is. 

“Yeah?” the Doctor prompts, straightening herself up and shoving her hands into her pockets. She rocks on her toes, baring a smile which only falters slightly at the sight of Yaz’s backpack.

She’s only heading home for the weekend, but ever since her girlfriend’s escape from prison, she’s been all the more dependant on Yaz’s presence and comfort. 

“Have you seen my jacket anywhere?” Yaz questions mid-way through another double-check through her bag, throwing a glance her way. “The fluffy one?”

“Your ja—” the Doctor starts, brows pinched in genuine contemplation. 

When her cheeks suddenly turn pink and her eyes widen a fraction, Yaz is quick to notice. 

“Oh,” the blonde breathes, her smile a touch flustered. “I think I spotted it on the couch in the fourth library, actually.”

“S’weird, I don’t remember leaving it there,” Yaz muses in return, racking her memory for the last time she’d visited the sprawling rooms. 

The Doctor’s laugh is too shaky not to make her suspicious. “You know what the old girl’s like — she’s not shy about moving things around sometimes,” she supplies, reaching up to scratch at the back of her neck and avert her gaze to Yaz’s booted feet. “Anyway, I’ll let you go, now. Say happy birthday to your mum for me.”

“It’s Najia,” Yaz quips not without a smirk, studying the Doctor’s suddenly sheepish body language and deciding to leave the jacket there for now. At least  _ someone _ ’s getting some use out of it. “And I will, I promise.”

“And — and it’s just two days, you said? You can stay for longer if you want. Don’t let me stop you,” the Doctor echoes as she follows the dark-haired woman to the doors. She skips ahead to draw one open for her, then steps aside. “Lots to do, y’know. I’m sure I can find something to distract myself with.” 

“Two days is more than enough time, trust me,” Yaz divulges, blowing her cheeks out in faux-exasperation as the next forty-eight hours of predictable chaos flash before her eyes. She turns back to her girlfriend in the doorway when she hears her chuckle, reaching out to touch a hand to her waist. “Try not to get into too much trouble while I’m away, please?”

“Yasmin Khan, when do I ever get into trouble?” the Doctor barks in rebuke, drawing a hand from her pocket to catch Yaz’s other hand. Her nose scrunches when Yaz raises her brows and opens her mouth to reply. “Actually, don’t answer that.” 

“Thought so,” Yaz laughs, leaning in to press a tender kiss to her girlfriend’s lips. “See you soon.”

“Miss you already,” the Doctor drawls in spite of the sincerity lacing her pupils. She feeds her fingers apart from Yaz’s to the last touch of their fingertips before reluctantly letting go. “I’ll be right here again in two days time.” 

Yaz’s response echoes. “You better be!” 

* * *

Three days later, she’s passing by the cinema room when she spots familiar cream material punctuated by fluffy cotton. 

When she lifts her jacket up for closer inspection, biscuit crumbs tumble from the garment. She can smell earl grey and peppermint and space coating the threads before she even lifts it to her nose, taking a steady inhale of her girlfriend’s scent. 

Rather than leave the room with it, she returns the item of clothing to the deep purple sofa and makes a mental note to keep an eye on its movements. 

When she mentions the jacket to her girlfriend over tea and biscuits in the doorway of the TARDIS later that evening, legs dangling into the expanse of space, the Doctor blushes and briskly sets about pointing out the constellations in their vicinity. 

* * *

She’s home for a week to return to her job a short time later, but this time the TARDIS returns a day early. 

It’s after a lengthy, torturous nightshift inundated with incapacitated students and rowdy partygoers on Sheffield’s streets that Yaz silently slips from her flat to seek her girlfriend out. 

The door to the TARDIS clicks open for her once she’s close enough, and with a whispered  _ thank you _ to the weathered wood, she pads inside. 

The lighting is low, set in warm, golden tones, and the console room is near-silent. There’s an engineered metal grate left open just beneath the main console and the fatigued police officer rubs her eyes in order to focus in the faint glow of crystallised pillars. 

Just beneath the pentagonal opening in the floor, the Doctor sits in a small swing, welding helmet set aside on the metal grating. 

As she steps closer, Yaz can safely assume that she’s fallen asleep during her task. 

More interestingly, though, is the cream coloured fabric of her jacket tucked against her form. Nose buried in the collar of the fluffy item, the Doctor continues to sleep soundly, blissfully engulfed by the remnants of Yaz’s scent. 

_ Busted _ , Yaz thinks, baring an endearing smile her way seconds before the Doctor stirs in awareness of eyes on her. 

“Yaz?” the blonde mumbles through a yawn when she cracks her eyes open, lids heavy. “S’late, you should be asleep.”

“So should you, by the looks of it.” Yaz reaches out for the Doctor’s hand when she goes to lift herself up and out of the gap in the floor, assisting her efforts and catching her fatigued form when she steps out on jellied legs. 

The Doctor is still clutching at Yaz’s stolen jacket when she greets her with a kiss to her cheek. 

“What’ve you got that for?” Yaz probes coyly, eyeing the garment. 

Instantly, the Doctor flushes from her chest to the tips of her ears. “Oh.”

Yaz is patient but no less smug. 

“Sort of — like holding it, when you’re not here,” the Doctor admits after a short silence, “Smells of you,” she mumbles, still half-asleep. It shows in the crinkles of her smile and the imprint of the fabric against her blushing cheek. “Makes me feel all funny — in my stomach. And safe. Like you’re here.”

Yaz’s brown eyes are soft when they take her stumbling girlfriend in and she sweeps an arm around her lithe waist. “No need for that when the real thing’s here,” she breathes when she Doctor instinctively moulds against her, dropping the jacket atop the controls to slump into her arms entirely. 

Brushing a kiss to her helmet-mussed hair, Yaz gives her tired girlfriend a squeeze and lets the blonde's head come to rest against her shoulder. She's all but stepping on her toes in a bid to press closer to Yaz. “Come on, Doctor. Let’s go to bed.”


	7. softly (E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which yaz needs some tiring out and the doctor is only too happy to oblige

Yaz reaches the number six hundred and forty-three in her counting before she gives up on the idea of sleep entirely, rolling onto her side and pressing her face into the pillow her girlfriend usually lays herself upon. Basking in the scent of peppermint and earl grey and the faint musk of nights spent entwined, Yaz does nothing to quell the sudden stir in her gut. 

She’s not at her side tonight, having slept enough the night previous for another month without slumber. Perhaps that’s why Yaz is unable to please the muddled, fatigued state of her body and give in to much-needed sleep. 

Peeling the sheets back, Yaz studies the domed ceiling and its circular-patterned appearance. She follows the curves and lines of the shapes she knows are words in the Doctor’s native tongue as though they will reveal themselves to her if she admires them long enough. 

“D’you think you could show me where she is?” Yaz probes the omniscient presence of her girlfriend’s ship, sitting up and dragging a hand through her dishevelled hair. 

An affirming hum and the gradual increase of light in her room fills Yaz with warmth and, in an action she’d usually mock the Doctor for, she pats the door affectionately on the way through. “Thanks.”

A trail of hexagons light up with a warm golden glow in the hallway and, trusting, Yaz follows the path en route to her girlfriend. 

Thirty steps and two turns later, Yaz slips past the grand double doors to the second library; characterised by a comfy nook she knows the Doctor loves. Really, she should’ve expected nothing more than to find her here. 

What she doesn’t expect, and is still growing used to, is to find her girlfriend sprawled over a familiar purple couch in her rainbow-emblazoned top and a pair of pink boxers. One of her lithe legs is dangling over the arm of the sofa, the other tucked up to her chest in a faux-bookstand, her thighs spread. 

She’s engrossed in a thick, teal-coloured book titled  _ The Rainforests of Athuziar-4 _ . A half-empty plate of jammie dodgers and custard creams sits on the opposite arm of the sofa, which she picks from at the same time as Yaz begins silently approaching. 

The familiar  _ crunch _ of a custard cream and the following hum of approval is loud in the grand room. 

Yaz is four steps away when the Doctor senses her encroaching shadow and glances up from her page in the book, lips curling upwards without a second of hesitation. “Yaz! Hiya, what’re you still doing up? I were just reading about the most  _ fascinating _ forest boars.” 

Close enough, Yaz plucks the book out of the way and sinks to her knees on the cool vinyl floor despite their protest. Then, she leans up, peeling the Doctor’s shirt up with her and humming in approval at the bare skin she finds beneath. 

“Yaz, what are you —” 

In audience to the alien’s half-confused, half-anticipatory expression, she closes her mouth around a soft nipple and drops a hand to her thigh. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh.” The Doctor’s head tips back on instinct, fingers curling through her hair. Her cheeks flush in surprise. “What’s this — what’s this for?”

“Need to tire myself out, babe,” Yaz purrs against her, raising her free hand to the other breast to circle her nub beneath her thumb. “You complainin’?” 

“No! No, not at all. Never,” the Doctor responds quickly; too quickly. She sits back, moving to drop her leg from the arm of the chair until, predicting the movement, Yaz stops her. 

Returning a pale, toned thigh to its place, Yaz keeps her girlfriend’s legs spread so to reduce her to keening hums and sighs ever quicker. 

“ _ Yaz _ .” She hears her gasp from above when she sucks at the pebbling flesh, thriving off the way her thighs tense with the need to close and conceal her body’s approval. 

“Keep ‘em open, babe. Or you’re not getting any.”

“Sorry! I’m sorry, Yaz. I will. Promise.” 

Yaz smirks against her flesh, capturing the nub between her teeth and tugging ever so slightly. The action draws a whimper from the Doctor’s lips. Half-moons litter the skin of her shoulder where her girlfriend has found purchase when she repeats the motion, dragging her teeth against the creamy skin and watching her expression soften with pleasure. 

The Doctor keeps her legs in place this time, and in reward, Yaz crooks her fingers around the waistband of her underwear and draws them over the milky expanse of her hips and toned thighs. At the same time, she turns her attention to her other breast. “Good girl.”

Her girlfriend’s resultant moan echoes into the oak chambers above and slips between each row of disorganised books like the first aftershock of a volcanic eruption. 

She wets the bud between her lips with her tongue, then sets about flicking it over the hardening flesh while their gazes meet. Usually hazel-green eyes darken into black hues as she works, and when she drops both hands to the insides of the Doctor’s thighs to squeeze and grope, she stores her girlfriend’s whimper in her mind for nights alone. 

Yaz lathers attention to her sensitive flesh until the Doctor is squirming and her nipples are pink and hard on her heaving chest. She’s definitely going to find marks on the backs of her shoulders for the next few days if the Doctor’s grip on her is anything to go by. 

In fact, she’s counting on it. 

Peeling away to lean back on her heels, Yaz wets her lips as she takes her ruffled form in. She’s glistening under the warm, low light from the lamp on the coffee table beside her, thighs trembling in anticipation. “Scoot forward a bit for me, babe.”

Obediently, the Doctor shuffles towards the edge of the couch, eyes wide and set like stone on the form knelt between her legs. 

There’s something about being on her knees for the Doctor that Yaz finds intoxicating, not to mention the proximity of where she knows is musky and hot. Her tongue darts over her lips when Yaz drops a hand from her thigh to glide two fingers through her swollen folds once, twice, three times before lifting them into the light. “All this for me?”

“Yes, always. Always for you — oh,  _ fuck _ .” 

The back of the Doctor’s head meets the firmness at the back of the sofa with a  _ thump _ when, holding eye contact, Yaz takes both fingers eagerly past her lips to suck clean. She hums around them in a manner she’d later deny until the Doctor emits a desperate whine from the back of her throat. 

Only then does Yaz take mercy, leaning in to press wet, open-mouthed kisses to the insides of her trembling thighs. She waits until the Doctor settles in for her usual teasing before surprising her with a hot mouth on her clit, making the blonde jerk into her molten touch like she’s given her an electric shock. 

“ _ Yaz _ ,” she all but shouts, slipping a hand from her shoulder into her hair and gripping for dear life as Yaz takes her apart with her wanton tongue. 

Yaz moans against her at the rough touch, tongue delving between sodden folds and swiping across her clit in lazy but firm drags she knows her girlfriend loves. 

“Gods, Yaz, you’re amazing. You’re brilliant. Excellent.”

The Doctor’s rambles fuel her ministrations, eyes closing as she loses herself to the task of getting her girlfriend off. She takes gulping breaths through her lungs every once in a while which leave her panting against her in no time but absolutely dedicated to her needs. 

The Doctor’s moans turn into a constant stream in minutes, her head thrown back against the couch and her jaw slack when Yaz opens her eyes to take in her ruddy state. 

“ _ More _ ,” she pleads in time, hips arching up into Yaz’s working mouth and toes curling. Her top is still bunched just above her heaving breasts and the sight makes Yaz’s own thighs press together more firmly. 

“More, baby?” Yaz purrs against her, moving her lips down from her clit to her dripping folds. She offers a sure swipe of her tongue through her core to gather up her juices before looking up, chin damp. “You mean inside?”

“Please,” the Doctor rasps, bunching her free hand into the material beside her head, elbow jutting. “I need you inside me, Yaz.”

By way of reply, Yaz ducks her head back down to open her mouth against her and drag her flattened tongue over her entrance. The second she guides it through hot folds into the silken warmth of her walls, the Doctor seizes up against her with a cry, throat straining as she throws her head back. 

“ _ Christ _ , fuck, fuck,  _ Yaz.”  _

The string of curses from her girlfriend’s lips echoes like a song in her head, motivating her onwards. Curling one hand around her thigh to grip her hip and allow her to rock against her mouth, Yaz brings her other hand to the Doctor’s clit. She rubs sure, firm infinity signs against her engorged bud, delighting in the way she trembles with sparks of pleasure. 

“I’m not going to last, Yaz,” she hears her mumble from above. Quickly, she drags her hips forwards to double her efforts. 

She’s always loved putting her mouth to good use, and never more so than to coax wanton, desperate cries from her girlfriend as though she hasn’t had all the experience the universe could offer her. 

Initially, she’d been intimidated with the task; understandably so. But after their first time — the Doctor’s quick reduction to writhing limbs and needy praises, she’d been far too pleased with herself to worry about such things anymore. 

Now is no different; when Yaz takes another curious glance up, she finds her girlfriend panting and arching into her touch, her free hand having dropped to her chest to squeeze and grope at herself. “ _ God _ ,” she muffles against her core, faltering for a moment while she appreciates the glorious sight. 

The Doctor voices her protest with a whine, shooting her a desperate look which has Yaz’s stomach clenching mid-summersault. 

So, she assumes her role and dives right back into her task. Her tongue searches deeper and her fingers work harder at her clit until a cacophony of slick noises are drowned out by the Doctor’s groans and continuous murmurs of praise. 

Hooking her girlfriend’s thigh over her shoulder, she keeps the other outstretched against the arm of the chair and switches up her position. She can sense the Doctor’s oncoming release by the way her words melt into sighs and moans, so when she slicks two fingers up and drives them without resistance into her core and attaches her mouth back to her clit, the body she’s worshipping winds up even quicker. 

She’s pliant and giving when Yaz clutches at her hip and encourages her to move; to use her mouth and fingers for all they’re worth. 

Taking note, the Doctor starts to grind and roll fluidly against her, breathy noises climbing up her throat with every plunge of her fingers through slick heat and every quick swipe of her tongue over her clit. 

It doesn’t take long, then, for the muscles around her fingers to begin contracting and pulsing, and for the Doctor’s grip in her hair to increase. It’s not enough to hurt, but simply a plea to continue. 

“Don’t stop. Please don’t stop — gods, Yaz. I’m so close,” the Doctor begs, sweat slicking her hair to her temples and giving her chest a glossy sheen. 

Yaz picks up her efforts, humming contentedly against her clit so the reverberations add to the firm pressure on her swollen, sensitive flesh. She increases the pace of her fingers, curling and dragging them against her walls with every thrust, searching for the spot which makes her unravel like a bound balloon set free. 

The Doctor cries out, the slick sounds of their escapades echoing in the grand confines. “Yaz, I’m going to—”

“C’mon, baby,” Yaz moans, meeting her eye when she finally finds the sensitive patch of flesh inside her which always succeeds in tipping her over the edge. “Come for me. I’ve got you.”

“ _ Yaz,” _ the Doctor gasps at the very precipice, brows lifting and mouth falling open in unashamed ecstasy. She comes harder than she has in a long while and grinds against her until the last tendrils of pleasure seep in quick tremors through her thighs and stomach muscles. 

But Yaz doesn’t stop there, working her fingers and mouth through her release and out the other side to build her up a second time. 

Lifting a hand to close around her breast and flick over her nipple, Yaz meets the Doctor’s awestruck gaze a millisecond before she clenches around her and writhes with a second orgasm. 

She’d grant her another if the Doctor didn’t reach for her and draw her away from her oversensitive flesh with a faint gasp. “ _ Christ _ , Yaz. Don’t do anything by halves, do you?”

Sporting a proud smirk, Yaz wipes at her mouth and chin with the back of her hand and climbs onto the couch beside her, much to the delight of her aching knees. 

The Doctor, ever caring, smoothes her hands over the reddened skin while Yaz leans in to capture her lips, letting her taste herself. “You’re brilliant,” the Doctor murmurs into her mouth, turning to better press Yaz down against the arm of the couch. “My turn.”

“Wait — it’s alright,” Yaz shrugs, pressing another lingering kiss to her lips. “This was about you, Doctor. And it worked.” She muffles a yawn into her palm, dropping her forehead to the Doctor’s shoulder and taking in her dishevelled state through tired eyes. “I’m pretty zonked out. You can return the favour in the morning.”

The Doctor draws her top back down over her chest and wriggles back into her boxers with a sated hum. “You promise?”

“Promise.” Yaz peels herself away to stand, hand outstretched hopefully. “Come to bed? I don’t mind if you stay awake — but I think I sleep better with you next to me.”

“Yasmin Khan; as if I could deny you anything.” With legs like jelly, the Doctor accepts her hand, twining their fingers together and following albeit clumsily behind her once she’s scooped her book up from the side table.

A short time later, beneath navy blue sheets and the comfort of a secure arm around her waist, Yaz sinks into the Doctor’s chest and lets her read aloud into the solace of their shared bedroom aboard her ship. 

Under the canopy of a projected solar system a step up from the plastic, glow in the dark stars decorating her room back in Sheffield, Yaz has never felt so at home.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!!!! if you have any prompts, fluffy, angsty, smutty, lmk!!!


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